So, my Black Dog is home from his HORRIFICALLY EXPENSIVE operation, fusing two compressed vertebrae which were crushing his spine. He still can’t walk. I may take him back and ask for a refund. But wait! He now has to undergo physio until he can use his front legs again. I mean, I shouldn’t complain, since we were the ones who willingly shelled out thousands of dollars. Well, it was either that or put him down. Not much of a choice, no? So the Black Dog has had the equivalent of a trip to Europe shoved surgically into his body and here he is, whining and flailing and generally making a nuisance of himself. BE GRATEFUL, BLACK DOG. Or we will KILL YOU and make of your pelt a Bathmat of Great Luxuriousness.
Of course, this means that Mr. T is still carrying the Black Dog around, out to the toilet and whatnot. The Black Dog weights 41kg. We don’t believe in pursedogs, and this can come back to bite you in the arse sometimes. Such as when you have to carry your giant breed dog around the place because his Expensive Legs still don’t work. I can’t snatch 41kg off the floor, weight training or no, so Mr. T’s back is killing him, instigating conversations such as the following:
“Do we have any Neurofen?”
“NO NUROFEN. We have no money for Neurofen. Gaze upon your diamond encrusted dog to ease your suffering.”
And I wasn’t even able to help yesterday … alas, I was felled by food poisoning. Ah, the siren call of food poisoning. While bent double in the bathroom, I was cursing Mr. T for cooking pork for dinner the night before. However he was fine and dandy and fit as a fiddle. So, not the pork then. So he was busy carting the Black Dog hither and yon, while I was collapsed weakly in bed, croaking “… water …” in my feeble, food poisoned way. This would seem like a cunning ploy by me, if not for the fact that I was TOO SICK to go to the Split Enz concert on Sunday night. I curse you, food poisoning. I curse you straight to hell! Poisoned hell!
Oh yeah, to top it all off: it was a long weekend. Three days off for Queens Birthday. So I have spent today (Monday) recuperating from being poisoned (from what? chicken for lunch is all I am left with) and flipping a dog from side to side, much like roasting a chicken. This is NOT my idea of a long weekend. This is not my beautiful house. This is not my beautiful wife.
However. My dog is lively and wants to get up – and will, as soon as his legs recuperate. I have bland and soothing leek & potato soup for dinner. It’s a four-day work week. And also on the work front, things are great and may, next week, get AWESOME. So yeah. Things are OK. Don’t mind me.